


All the Days of History

by HannahTheScribe



Series: I’ll Give You [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Adult Content, Alternative Lifestyles, Alternative Sexuality, Authority Figures, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Character of Color, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Bisexuality, Bottoming, Character(s) of Color, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Companion Piece, Conditioning, Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Sex, Control, Dark Past, Dom/sub, Dominance, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female Characters, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female-Centric, Fights, Friendship, Gaslighting, Heavy BDSM, Insomnia, Kinks, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Love, Married Characters, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Masochism, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, No Lesbians Die, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One Shot, Ownership, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Queer Character, Queer Culture, Queer Friendly, Queer Themes, Realistic, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Romance, S&M, Sadism, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Strong Female Characters, Submission, Submissive Character, Topping, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Useless Lesbians, Violence, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahTheScribe/pseuds/HannahTheScribe
Summary: Backstory companion of theI'll Give Youseries.  Jen runs into her past.Or, "Jen.rtf."  It's okay to be a sadistic psychopath as long as you're tall, blonde, and have a traumatic backstory, right?
Relationships: Jen Lundqvist/Clara Chen
Series: I’ll Give You [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	All the Days of History

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).

Jen had made eye contact with the familiar looking man way too many times to not say anything, while both were rapidly losing interest in which brand of bread to buy. He couldn’t seem to decide if he knew her, either, but then recognition dawned on his face.

“Hey, look who it is,” he said, bright smile following the expression of recognition. She smiled, too. The two hugged and only one person huffed as they moved their cart around them.

“It’s been a minute,” she said.

“Sure has. How _are_ you?”

“Well, I’m back here,” she said.

“No California?”

“No; I remembered I actually don’t like beach towns. I still work there, officially. Bought a house about two blocks that way—” she gestured, and it was probably the wrong direction, but that wasn’t the point “—maybe six years ago, now.”

“Good for you,” he said. “Yeah, I retired last year. Helen, too. Bored out of my skull, if we’re telling the truth.”

“No challenges?” she asked, little head tilt.

“Haven’t had as interesting a one since you anyway,” he laughed.

He gave a curious look at something behind her and she turned, smiled, gave a beckoning gesture. “My wife, Clara,” she said.

“Franklin,” he said, shaking Clara’s hand. “Old friend.”

“The famous Mr. Graves?”

“That’d be the one.” He laughed. “How long?” he asked, gesturing between the two of them.

“About five years,” said Jen, a loose arm around Clara’s waist, petting the soft black sweater she wore.

“Congratulations.” His eyes flicked to the lock at Clara’s throat.

“Thank you.” Her eyes flicked to Clara, who leant her head on her shoulder, smiling back at her. She offered a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Well, I should let you two shop. Call sometime. I was meaning to. We’ll get dinner. Helen would love to see you. Both of you.”

“I will.”

As the former high school principal walked away, he thought, _Some problem cases do turn out for the best._

…

Franklin Graves had been four years into being a high school principal at the time, priding himself on not being too jaded for the job yet. He had a good relationship with his staff, with the kids, and with the parents.

He knew enough people that he tended to get a heads up each summer on which freshmen to look out for.

This year’s promised problem case was going to be _Jenevieve Lundqvist._

“However the hell that’s pronounced,” he muttered to himself. He told his office manager he wanted to see her in the first week via sticky note and not aloud. If you talked to the problem cases early, you usually got a few clues, even if they couldn’t be reasoned with. No dean to do it for him—budget cuts.

He was told that said student was waiting to see him in the front office on Thursday, but the only student he saw there was a tall blonde mid conversation with his office manager, who was happily going on about her grandkids, the student smiling and nodding encouragingly.

Ah, the charming psychopath, then. Those were a special kind of case.

She smiled at him, too, as she sat across his desk from him. “Something I can do for you, sir?”

He wanted to say _your bullshit won’t work on me._ But he tried to start out friendly but honest. “I wanted to ask about your file,” he said. He picked up the folder. “There’s a lot here.”

She shifted, smile faltering but not disappearing. She wore a red leather jacket that didn’t fit her very well, in a humid eighty degrees, and when she shifted, a sleeve caught on the arm of the chair for a moment, showing a fading bruise at her wrist. Just for a split second, before she tugged the sleeve back, arms crossed.

One note in the file advised, _If you want results for a week, call her father._

“I’m sure there is,” she said.

“You were expelled in November for the rest of eighth grade for assaulting a student with a knife.” One of the few things that would get a white girl expelled.

“Yes, sir?” The tone, the expression, the posture, said, _And?_

“Why did you do it?” he asked. Sometimes—not often—but sometimes, these kids could be charmed by an adult who was a fresh audience, willing to hear their side of the story. He had a feeling this kid wasn’t easily charmed.

“He started it,” she said, but her tone was nonchalant, not defensive. Slight shrug. “I finished it.”

He was going to accomplish nothing today. Ran a hand over his face.

“Look,” she said, leaning closer, “I don’t fuck with people who don’t deserve it. I don’t like guns and I don’t like any interesting drugs. So if no one else starts a problem, I won’t do anything worth being on your radar. Okay?”

“We’ll see how it goes,” he said. “You have a clean slate at this school as far as I’m concerned, but you only get that once.”

…

Once, and for about a month.

To be fair, minor incidents had already made their way back to him. General disrespect for authority, suspected truancy—he wondered if that was hiding anything—no work turned in, cigarettes stolen from a teacher found in her backpack and promptly returned, nothing that officially made it to his office, but he heard the staff small talk.

Apparently, though, another freshman girl had complained to her mother about an incident involving being pressured into sex. The mother wanted a meeting.

It really didn’t go anywhere.

Her own parents no showed; the other girl was timid to begin with; the mother was livid but couldn’t break that cheerfully polite wall; she was too smart to let it break today. Admitted to everything—really, in the grand scheme of her record, some verbal pushiness and a bit of petting wasn’t anything worth hiding—apologized, shifted no blame, agreed to stay away from the other student. Probably would—this didn’t seem worth it.

“I want her transferred out of that English class,” said the mother at one point; the only class the two kids shared.

“I’d be happy to transfer,” Jen said, with that disarming smile.

This was basically a win for her—a hassle if she cared about classes, which she didn’t, but it was evident from the rumors she had a particular dislike for her English teacher, who wasn’t popular to begin with. He almost had to wonder if she’d had that somewhere in mind or if that was luck.

When she left, he thought he noticed a slight limp.

…

Study Hall was not a real elective, he thought; it was barely a real chance to do homework; but apparently it had been some valuable time for Jen to work her charm on a bored supervising teacher.

The report cited nothing surprising to him. It added up some signs he’d seen, too; poor hiding of injuries, truancy, the obvious lack of parental guidance, a violent record, hypervigilance.

He said, “Getting thrown in foster care is the last thing this kid needs. No one’s record's ever gotten better for it, with this kind of past at this kind of age.”

He did have the counselor ask a few questions, though. Only child. Single father. They seemed financially afloat. Mother walked out the door when the kid was eight. When asked about custody, the mother, already largely absent, said, quote, “Keep it.” It had clearly been downhill since, though they got no admittance to a physically abusive situation, just a flinch when someone accidentally slammed a filing cabinet drawer in a nearby office.

…

Early sophomore year. In his office again. He didn’t bother addressing absences and unfinished work anymore.

So, fight that got out of hand, and too one sided. Unarmed, but bad. She’d been on thin ice anyway, and there was no room left in school policy to avoid suspending her, which meant the call home.

“I don’t want to do this,” he told her, “but there are rules.” His hand was on the phone, and she grabbed his wrist.

“No. Please.” Her eyes were wide, desperate, locked on his. “I’ll do anything you say. Anything else.” Her grip was shaking. “Please.”

He sighed. Took his hand off the phone. “Sit down. Maybe we can talk.”

…

Junior year. Stolen midterm answer key for a math class she wasn’t even in. Done for a kid with an almost clean record and a desperately maintained 3.0. “Look, let’s be real for a second, okay? You’re nearly an adult. Let’s just be honest with each other.”

“Okay,” she said, and he didn’t believe her yet.

“He’s not that bright a guy. Needed that answer key. Not popular. Can’t drive. Not good looking. Doesn’t have money. What’s in it for you?”

She avoided his eyes. “His mom’s really nice. She likes me. I go over for dinner and tutor him in math.” She looked at the stolen answer key she’d been confronted with, spotted by the math teacher during the test. “Until there’s no hope.”

He sighed. _You’re being bribed with goddamn family dinners,_ he thought, and that was more sad than the kid’s final math grade.

Half the grade level seemed to owe this girl something, a little system she’d built for herself of sweet talk and favors.

And this was what she wanted.

…

Senior year. More fights. There was a school district psychologist desperately trying to pin her down with a diagnosis. Not quite a narcissist. Not quite a psychopath. Wouldn’t talk enough to check the boxes for PTSD. Nothing to note.

…

 _“Stay in touch, would you?”_ he’d said, because he was pretty sure there was something to like in this kid and hope yet, and he called every once in a while. She was out of state shortly after graduation and he didn’t blame her, and age seemed to mellow her out a lot, largely keeping a job or a relationship longer each time, at least.

If one or the other was in the right area at the right time, dinner. Somehow Helen didn’t meet the kid until she was twenty-five and a lot less of a kid, but his wife was just as eager to adopt her like one.

But frequently, years passed with no calls and no dinners.

He missed some important updates.

…

Thirty-four. Owned a home in a good neighborhood. Steadily employed making six figures and somehow working two hours a day, God bless the tech industry. Four cats. Happily married to a woman she’d known for a week, who blithely ignored the warning messages she’d gotten. Maybe she could forget a few things now.

…

The words were barely out of Clara’s mouth when her back hit the wall, knocking the air out of her lungs. She cried out in surprise, the sound choked by Jen’s fingers tight at her throat.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, squirming; air, she needed air— “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

Jen’s eyes searched her face; fear, but mostly… confusion.

Clara looked back at her. Anger, of course, but something else—pain. Playfulness had gone way too far.

Jen let her go, took a few small steps back.

Clara fell to her knees, panting.

“Just get out of my sight.”

Clara didn’t need to be told twice.

An hour later, Clara came back into the living room, head low but eyes trained on her.

“Hey.” She looked upset, but not angry, standing from where she was sitting on the couch. “C’mere.”

Clara followed her beckoning gesture and knelt at her feet. 

"I love you. You know that?" Petting her head.

“I know,” she said, confused. “I love you, too.”

Jen sighed, a shaky exhale. “I overreacted,” she admitted. “And that’s not your fault. But I need you to never say that again. Okay? Promise me. And don’t ask me why.”

Clara looked up at her. “Okay. I promise,” she whispered, and nuzzled into her hand.

Jen stroked her cheek, quiet. She didn’t like giving blanket bans on things, but she didn’t want to hurt her in a way that was out of control—and she had _felt_ very out of control at hearing the words, a teasing threat Clara couldn’t have known had always been followed through on in the past.

She should tell her, one day, about a few things—but it wasn’t something she opened with and the longer she waited, the harder it got.

…

“Just look at the stars.”

There weren’t many of them visible, but Clara had always been good at finding the little things. Her arms were wrapped around her from the side, kisses pressed to her shoulder, her skin warm and the air cool. The back patio in the middle of the night.

Clara had woken her from excessive tossing and turning, murmuring things in her sleep, a bad dream; she’d felt very hot, needed fresh air, maybe a cigarette, maybe to be alone, but Clara’d followed her and she thought maybe she felt a little better for it.

“I won’t ask,” Clara said, lips still at her skin, “but if you ever want to tell me, I’m here.”

…

One of those days. She needed distraction, something that felt good. She grabbed Clara—her favorite toy—and in the quiet and dimly lit bedroom, afternoon sun through the blinds and no lamps, enjoyed Clara’s mouth on her and tried to slow her racing pulse.

After the fourth orgasm, Clara whispered, “Do you want to talk about it?” and Jen just pulled her head back between her legs and didn’t even tell her to shut up.

…

Their three month anniversary, and truly, she didn’t normally present this badly. She knew there had been a million signs there might be something she wasn’t discussing in just twelve weeks; normally, there weren’t. But Clara seemed to bring it out in her—maybe their emotional closeness, maybe the intensity of what happened physically between them, maybe the sheer intimacy of living together with neither holding a job outside the house at that point.

Six months. Too much wine. Clara ran off and it was almost a relief, the moment she kept waiting for, when she got too intense and people left and left and left no matter how unbreakable the contract sounded. The feeling of seeing Clara back on her doorstep in the morning was unfamiliar. Fury and heartache and relief and disappointment and love and love and love.

She had never understood the _I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed_ thing because _disappointment_ was not something she had ever felt at a person. The crucial difference hit her all at once. Anger was a reaction to a bad result. Disappointment was a reaction to a bad result that broke an _expectation_.

And, for the first time, she had expected better.

To be fair, she was also furious as hell.

_“Do you have any idea how fucking scared I was?”_

_“You’re not going anywhere. I can’t lose you.”_

The blood on Clara’s skin and the thought, _It could have been worse._

Eight months.

_“Are you gaslighting her on purpose?”_

_I can’t lose her._

A little lie now and then, a blurred memory of disobedience—it was so easy—to make Clara's mind foggy when, if, she thought of leaving. She needed her. And Clara’d agreed to the conditioning. No matter who questioned it.

Nine months.

A long, hard scene the day before, lying in bed now, tracing the bruises, pressing just to watch Clara squirm. “Oh, does that hurt?” she cooed, pressing harder at one on her thigh.

“Yes,” Clara ground out, trying to pry her hand off of her and failing. “Surprisingly, bruises hurt. Not like you would know.”

“I’d know.”

Clara’s eyes flicked up to hers. The tone was wrong, a little too soft. Sudden. But Jen kissed her and shifted her hand up her thigh and distracted her, for a bit, her tongue sliding over hers and her fingers working quickly, the orgasm coming fast and intense and the first thing Clara said as it faded, panting, lying next to each other again, was, “You’d know?”

“My father used to beat the shit out of me,” she said, and the words came out almost calm, and then she turned over and buried her face in Clara’s shoulder and cried.

…

It all came out.

Her father’s actions, yes, but also the seriousness and patterns of her own incidents that had been casual stories without endings, little signs that led nowhere.

Clara held her and stroked her back and whispered soothing words, and it felt so suddenly safe and necessary to tell her. Story after story. The bad, and the good—everyone who had ever cared. A Study Hall teacher who listened and a desperate math student’s mother who was kind and mostly a high school principal who thought she could be redeemable. More.

Clara pressed kisses wherever she could reach and said, “I’ve got you.” And, when she thought Jen was more asleep than not, with a caress of her hair, “No one’ll hurt you again.”

…

“—And Clara, I heard you homeschooled your sister?” Helen Graves, retired fifth grade teacher, had taken a quick liking to Clara even before the ensuing hour long conversation about creating an engaging science lesson.

“—I think we lost ‘em,” her husband said, though his wife looked over at the words, if barely.

“I’d say,” said Jen, though she didn’t seem to mind. They wandered into the adjacent living room.

“You seem happy,” he said, because it seemed right to.

“I am, I think.” When he said _happy,_ her eyes went back to Clara. He noticed. “She’s… my everything,” she admitted, with a little helpless laugh.

“And you’re hers,” he said, because he wasn’t blind. He could’ve said that in the bread aisle.

And it was probably the best thing for her, to love and be loved unconditionally, whatever a psychologist had said she was or wasn’t capable of so many years ago.

Maybe she needed more than that, maybe she didn’t, but God, it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to take the survey and share your opinions about this series? Find the survey [here](https://forms.gle/h2pho3vavpzNT1jr5).
> 
> Want a physical copy or ebook? Find Book One and The First IGY Companion on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Hannah-The-Scribe/e/B08NPX9Q4L). 
> 
> Want fun extras like fonts and audio? Check [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy/).
> 
> Want more, and have something in mind? Request short stories for this series [here](https://hannahthescribe.com/igy-requests/).
> 
> Want more? Find the whole series on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867054) along with my [other works](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034871).
> 
> Want the reality? Read my BDSM nonfiction on [Service Slave Secrets](http://www.serviceslavesecrets.com/) or [FetLife](https://fetlife.com/users/7113554/posts/5648128).
> 
> Want a taste of the trainee life? Find my BDSM education classes [here](https://serviceslavesecrets.com/events/).


End file.
